


Leave a Mark

by fonapola



Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2217504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fonapola/pseuds/fonapola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mark makes itself known the moment he rolls over in his sleep, curling towards the edge of his bed instead of lying against her bare back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave a Mark

**Author's Note:**

> I'm (still) trying to get back into writing, and this is what happened. 
> 
> [New fandom, yay!]

 

 

** V. **

The mark makes itself known the moment he rolls over in his sleep, curling towards the edge of his bed instead of lying against her bare back. She can feel the slight pull as his rosary falls away from her skin, leaving her completely bare save for the new mark and the bed sheets somehow tangled at her calves. The hand she twists behind her to examine the indent encounters only two shallow half-spheres pressed into her skin. The rosary beads are to blame for the temporary scar, but she is grateful.

Grateful it was not the cross.

It would have been fitting had she been branded by the cross that night; leaving evidence of her sin against her back for her husband to find—should he be bothered to look.  As it is, she knows she will still wear her sin. Guilt is a cloak visible to those with keen eyes. Her husband was not blessed with such eyes, but the streets of Paris never lack knowing gazes ready to spread rumours and lies (and truths) to any who will listen.

He barely stirs as she pulls herself from his bed. Her blouse covers her bare skin and fresh brand, and she can only hope the darkness of pre-dawn will cover the rest of her sins as she hurries back to her home.

He had promised to see her home, explaining at least three different ways he could make it so no one would know that she had ever been away from her husband’s bed. In the stillness of the new day, however, she is not as inclined to take him up on his offer.

It was a mistake. And she will not make it worse by relying on him anymore. It was that reliance that landed her in her current mess to begin with.

Constance can only hope that her newfound resolve will last long after the brand on her skin has faded.

 

** I. **

She has one hand pressed against his chest and the other curled along his unblemished cheek, willing the simple contact to rouse him. He had dropped hard and fast after a sharp blow to the temple, lying unmoving at her feet.

It had only taken a second for her to follow, dropping to her knees and letting her hands check for signs of life—( _don’t be dead, don’t be dead, please_ ). There is blood at his temple and across his cheek, highlighting the blow that sent him to the ground. He’s breathing, but he doesn’t react to her touch.

Swords continue to clash around her, but even her untrained ear can tell that the battle is waning. She only hopes her side is winning. If she had known the marketplace would have erupted into such chaos that morning she…still would have gone.

It has been weeks since Milady disappeared, and she misses the excitement of the musketeers—even if she does not miss the worry of seeing one of those men injured.

“Aramis, wake up,” she orders, emulating the authority she has heard Athos use on more than one occasion.

When it does nothing, she gives his cheek a sharp tap. The wrinkled brow and soft groan she earns, encourages her, and she gives his cheek another tap before letting her hand trail from his forehead to his jaw. “Good. Wake up.”

“…such a violent woman,” he mutters, before forcing his eyes open. “You wound me, Constance.”

She hides her relief at his return to coherency behind a mocking frown. “You wound yourself, Aramis. Couldn’t you see the musket that man was swinging at you? Slowly, I might add.”

His only response is another frown, as he blinks up at her—the flicker of coherency fading slightly.

“Aramis?” She puts pressure on the hand at his chest as she leans closer, keeping his attention on her even as his eyes attempt to scan the battlefield around them. (The battlefield that had been nothing more than a marketplace earlier that day and will return to its simple origins once the musketeers have done their duty.)

“The others?” he asks, voice quiet but demanding.

“Winning,” she assures him, though she hasn’t had a chance to see if she is speaking the truth.

Almost in response, the echo of meeting swords dies completely, leaving only the excited murmurs of onlookers. Before Constance can study the outcome of the battle, there’s a familiar hand on her shoulder, pulling her to her feet. Porthos takes her place at Aramis’ side, as she’s tucked under d'Artagnan’s strong arm.

“Are you okay?” he asks, pressing his lips into her hair.

“Fine.” She carefully leans into his touch, allowing the façade of concerned Musketeer and upset Parisian citizen be their temporary cover. As they watch Aramis slowly gain his feet, Constance runs her fingers along the palm of her left hand, feeling the mark pressed into it.

d'Artagnan notices and carefully twists her hand so he can check her for injury. “…huh,” he murmurs, tracing a finger over the marred skin. “Does it hurt?”

The cross on her palm is an almost perfect moulding of the cross on Aramis’ rosary, pressed into her skin as she’d urged him back to consciousness. It will fade with time, just as the anxiety she had felt (still feels)—just as these moments with her musketeers always do.

“No,” she says, ignoring the lie.

 

** II. **

She resists. Of course she resists. She does not need comfort. She has handled worse. She broke d’Artagnan’s heart and let him walk away from her.

Twice.

This isn’t any worse.

“Constance…”

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are.”

“I _am_.”

“You don’t have to be stoic. Not now.”

“I’m not being stoic. I’m being practical. He’ll be fine. There is nothing to be upset about.”

Aramis shifts closer, carefully curling an arm around her shoulders. “I know,” he agrees, his tone a complete contradiction to his simple statement. “I know.”

His fingertips press lightly against her bare shoulder and Constance _breaks_.

She bent under the pressure of life with her husband. Of life with d’Artagnan. _Without_ d’Artagnan. She bent as her heart walked away from her—and kept beating. She bent because she had to—because it was not within her rights to break under the pressure of her own adultery.

Later, she will blame her breakdown on nerves. On the trauma of what she’s seen and heard and _lived through_. Now, she just folds, giving in and seeking comfort in the arms that do not match the ones she is grieving.

“He was supposed to come back,” she says.

“He still might.”

Constance remembers the pretty eyes a different shade from her own and the hand that does not bear a wedding ring. “Be practical.”

“That is your job. I’m the romantic.”

He rubs his thumb over her shoulder, but does not curl his other arm around her, nor does he let go until she moves first. There are no more tears in her eyes, when she meets his. The ones on her cheeks are easily brushed away by the hand no longer on her shoulder.

Aramis smiles then chuckles when his smile earns him a confused frown. “Your face,” he explains, tracing a finger over her left eye from brow to cheekbone. “You have a mark from this.” He indicates the delicate gold chain of his rosary. “You look like Porthos.”

“There are worse things.”

 

** III. **

She feels the bite of the rosary the instant she is shoved against his chest. Her bare shoulder finds the sharp edge of the jewelled necklace, but he is the one who grunts in surprise then drops a hand against her lower back to steady her.

“This is not how I had planned my evening,” she hisses at him, without turning from her current position. Porthos’ strong arm against her other shoulder has made sure she remains locked in place.

“I thought you said you missed these escapades with us,” Aramis returns, just as quietly. There is a reason Porthos has pushed them into a dark corner, but not a strong enough one to keep them completely silent.

“No. I said I missed _d_ _’Artagnan_.”

“Well, Madame, he is not here.” The hand on her back presses minutely at her spine, adding a subtle tease to the obvious statement.

Constance centres herself with the pressure at her back and the hand at her shoulder. She narrows her focus to the sting of the rosary creating new grooves in her flesh. She smiles. “I know.”

“Quiet. Both of you,” Porthos orders, releasing Constance. “And get ready.”

She curls a trained hand over the hilt of the sword at Aramis’ side, and he nods his consent as he pulls out a pistol.

It will not be like last time.

They will fight side-by-side.

And Constance will almost regret the moment the mark of Aramis’ rosary disappears from her skin.

 

** IV. **

She grabs his shirt front—rosary and all—and pulls him to her. Because, he is smiling at her in that way he always does ( _her, I like_ ). Because, it has been weeks since she woke up with regret on her mind ( _it was a beautiful dream_ ).

Because, the last man she loved nurtured her confidence until she learned her self-worth and she will not let that lesson go unused. She is not in love—not anymore ( _not yet_ )—but she still acts.

She still pulls him to her and _takes_.

The mark on her hand only lasts a minute, and she won’t think of it again until much later—until after she has snuck back home in the too-early hours of the morning, her mind focusing solely on the indentation of the rosary beads branded on her back. Then, she’ll remember the way the cross had pressed against her palm as his mouth had pressed against her lips. She’ll remember the way she’d held it tighter and not flinched from the decision she’d been building up to for minutes—days—weeks.

She’ll remember the distinct lack of burned flesh as she held the cross and chose to sin.

She will take it as the permission He may not have ever intended to offer.

 

** VI. **

He finds the mark on their second morning. It is pressed just below his collarbone, in a perfect mould.

He traces it absently as he watches her stand and collect her clothes. She turns back to him suddenly, eyes bright with mirth. “Is this going to become a habit?” she asks, indicating the mark of the cross pressed against the swell of her breast. “You never take those off, do you? I’ll be doomed to bear the mark of your cross from now on, won’t I?”

Aramis matches her smile and lies back, appreciating the view. “Careful, Constance. Your words are starting to sound more romantic than practical.” He taps against his own chest. “And, you are not the only one who bears a mark from the night before. You may carry my cross, but what does it mean that I carry your fleur-de-lis? Is this another commission? Do I serve another sovereign, now? Will I have to split my loyalties between you and the king?” As he speaks, she shakes her head and steps closer, finally kneeling next to him on the bed.

“You are more loyal to your brothers-in-arms than you will ever be to the king,” she reminds him unnecessarily. “And, I will not be their competition.”

He moves his hand from the fleur-de-lis at his chest and uses it to pull her back to his side. “Then what will you be?”

Constance places her hand on his chest, mirroring his absent tracing of the etched flower and petals on his skin. “An equal,” she says with a conviction that makes him smile with pride. “I will be their equal.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you're so inclined, bother me over at tumblr: www.fonapola.tumblr.com


End file.
